


Red Fever

by WackyGoofball



Series: Colour Verses [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, F/M, JB Appreciation Week 2015!!!, Jaime POV, Jaime bitching, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Post!Harrenhal, Romance, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4934635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JB Week 2015 Day 2: Red. </p><p>After the events of Harrenhal, Brienne withdraws and Jaime checks on the wench... with unexpected results and admissions coming out in the moonlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Fever

**Author's Note:**

> So, here goes the second colour of the palette. 
> 
> Hugest of thanks to the folks who came up with this colour-idea. You are awe-some. 
> 
> This is almost exclusively from Jaime's POV. I hope I did a decent job at a proper characterization. 
> 
> I'm still no native, which sucks. I proof-read my own stories, which means that there are always flaws, lol. But I always give my best. 
> 
> And yay, second JB oneshot! 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy ;)

A bit of time has passed since they left Harrenhal behind them, _this_ time with the wench in tow.

Somehow, the picture of Brienne pointing a bloody wooden sword at a bear didn’t leave Jaime since, dressed in that hideous rose gown that the bear seemingly didn’t like any better, since he used both his paws to shred it.

Are bears colour blind?

Or allergic to rose?

Or sapphire blue?

Jaime shifts on the dry grass. They made camp by the outskirt of some forest. To be honest, Jaime is glad for the change of scenery. Glancing at not very green grass fields for hours made his mind swirl. Or maybe it was the aftermath of his fever finally wearing down. Or maybe the loss of his hand made him sillier than he believed at first.

Jumping into a bear pit. By the Gods.

That was most certainly no decision of rationale.

Well, once they reach King’s Landing, he can surely make it sound like some heroic tale, about having rescued a maiden from a wild beast. Not that many people would be interested in a Kingslayer’s tale. But Jaime is good at telling stories. _Writing_ them stands on another page. Not only because he will have to write with his left hand from now on, after it took him years to refine his skill with his right, but also because Jaime can’t really recall any glorious moment worth mentioning in tales when about himself.

Or the _Book of the Brothers_.

But maybe rescuing a maiden, an ugly maiden, fine, but still a maiden, from a beast like this giant bear was would surely sound better than:

… _At the Sack of King's Landing murdered his king, Aerys the Second, at the foot of the Iron Throne. Pardoned by King Robert Baratheon. Thereafter known as the Kingslayer._

Chicken scratch notwithstanding.

The thing is that Jaime, deep down, knows that it wasn’t at all heroic. The wench never would have been in that godforsaken pit, had he found the wits to wait until Bolton was gone for good, and then give Locke the same speech he now left him with as a goodbye. Jaime could have spared Brienne the bear pit, and himself therefore, too.

Jaime shifts again. By the Gods, he’s slept in a muddy pen for over a year, but tonight, his body decides to feel every stone, every bump as though it was a dagger in his back, his tailbone, the left cheek of his arse. The weary knight gets up at once, growling deep in his throat. He put up his camp a little further away from Qyburn and the people supposed to bring him to King’s Landing. He is just fed up with their ugly faces, and while he is glad that the Maester without chains does proper work on his stump to keep it from festering and consuming him further, on a physical level at least, he finds him no good company.

Not that he is fond of Maesters anyway, but this one has something dark about him that Jaime can’t really put and doesn’t want to put either.

People who experiment with life itself are the kind of people Jaime doesn’t seek to experiment with in turn. He lost a hand already. He doesn’t know what pound of flesh that man would take if given the chance.

Jaime looks around, squinting into the darkness of the woods, as the sun long since disappeared behind the horizon.

He looks back at the camp, where the men are sitting hunched over by the fire, sipping wine from a goatskin, telling tales, and stealing glances at the man they are bound to bring to King’s Landing with grimaces and misgiving.

Not that Jaime gives a damn.

But where is the wench?

He saw her walking off right after they had eaten, but ever since then, she’s just gone.

Brienne has been ghosting behind him ever since he got her out of Harrenhal. She talked little. Averted her gaze most of the time. It was like he was having a second shadow all of a sudden.

Not that this is something he was sad about by any means. It was quite refreshing not to have her muttering curses into the nape of his neck or give him that plank-like look.

But it irritates Jaime, because he is used to bickering with her by now.

It became a strange kind of constant in his life, after it consisted of walking and walking and walking ever since the wench pulled off the hood from his face and he could only remark that she was much uglier at daylight. However, bickering with her was the constant Jaime had, the thing that always stayed.

It has been what their conversations mostly consisted of. Or well, he bickered, she told him to stop. He didn’t. Then she pushed him away. And Jaime went on with the next verbal assault.

Repeat the process.

 _That_ was his continuity.

Teasing Brienne is easy, but ever since Harrenhal, she grew almost completely mute, only tagged after him like an ugly, tall, awkward duckling, and kept a safe distance from all the other men of the entourage.

And that really starts to make him frown. Because Jaime tried to tease her a few times, only this morn, but she did _nothing_. Brienne didn’t even grunt to make her displeasure known. No, the wench just rode the horse behind him, or walked behind him when they gave the horses a rest.

The one thing that made him likely grimace even more was that she did these little services for him, left unspoken, though. She unsaddled the horse for him when they made camp ever since Harrenhal. Tossed the blanket for his bed for the night on the ground. Packed the few things he now brings along together the next morn. Saddled the horse again. Held the reins and the stallion by the hind legs so he had it easier to climb on, which proves to be harder than getting off the horse, with one hand less. Brought him his share of whatever meal was cooked in the rusty pot, and one time he only saw it from the corner of his eye that she cut up the meat for him, whatever animal it was, it tasted like hare, but it could have been a rat, too, not letting it on to anyone else that she did before handing him the bowl wordlessly.

And honestly? Jaime had felt tempted for a moment to tell her his thanks, but then decided against it. He figured that she was just trying to be nice, in her own awkward, plank-faced way, or feels indebted to him for the mighty jump down the bear pit.

But again, Jaime knows it was no heroic act. He didn’t save her. He took off like a coward and only found his balls once it was almost too late. In the end, he just repaid the debt he never should have made in the first place, and that was to leave the wench there.

Jaime makes his way to Qyburn, who busied himself with going over his inventory, or so it appears.

“Have you seen Brienne somewhere?” the knight asks in a muter voice.

“She’s headed into the woods. I haven’t seen her since,” Qyburn shrugs, looking around. Jaime curls his lips in a frown, debating with himself if he wants to try to ease his arse back down on the spot that gives him sores just thinking about it, or see what the wench is up to.

In the end, he proceeds into the woods, figuring that she is actually less of a pain in the arse than that bloody spot of earth. And even if not, it will likely be more interesting. The chattering fades out the further he walks into the woods. And the further he walks away from the camp, the more he finds himself in the white light of a full moon. It’s unnaturally bright in this place, he thinks to himself as he proceeds further.

He stops at the sound of water splashing. Jaime makes a face. If the wench manages to release such a load from her bladder, then he shall be damned, and she most definitely needs to see a healer.

He walks further to see the source of the noise. Indeed it is the wench, but she plunges her hands into a small pool to splash the water in her face, before she goes on rubbing against her skin as though she was kneading dough, with a bit more fury, however.

She doffed the cape one of their travelling ‘companions’ had to spare for her and the small chest plate, safe for the rough cotton tunic underneath.

Jaime understood by now that there are just two ways for Brienne to look womanly at all. The first one is bare, as she was back in the bathtub, where he got to see everything she usually keeps below heavy layers of clothing, if not an armour.

And he would rather die than admit that his member stirred that one moment she stood up, towered above him like an Amazon after he said some nasty things about Renly he can hardly recall. He just remembers how furious she was, and how intimidating, fierce, how almost monumental she seemed to him, forcing even a lion to bow his head and beg forgiveness.

And she seemed not at all as ugly as she is.

That may have been the fever, though.

The other way for Brienne to look slightly womanly is actually in men’s clothing, so he had to learn. Only in that rose dress did she look truly grotesque, and that even though it should have made her look more like a member of her sex, but it didn’t in Jaime’s eyes. And it definitely stopped the moment on he caught sight of the colour in the bear pit again. That was the moment he decided that Brienne is never allowed to wear such a thing of such a colour again, not within his presence at least. It makes him sick.

Brienne sits back on her calves, digging through her pouch. Jaime decides to make his presence known this time, “Freshening up for the upcoming ball, are we?”

The blonde woman jumps at the sound of his voice, tearing her gaze at him as Jaime draws closer. Those eyes are truly weapons, he thinks to himself, as Jaime finds himself ducking a bit for no reason. In the moonlight, they seem even brighter, even sharper, like swords made of Valyrian steel.

She slowly eases once her mind registers it to be Jaime, though her shoulders remain as tight a line as does her jaw.

Really, if she stopped grinding her teeth like that, she wouldn’t have that ugly man’s chin, at least not so much. Maybe he should tell her. Not that Jaime thinks that Brienne gives a single fuck on looking less manly. Or prettier by any chance.

“Cat’s got your tongue?” he asks, after he waited a few seconds for a retort to come his way, if not some object to make him stay away from her flying his direction.

But neither does.

It’s needless to mention that this woman's got one Hell of an aim.

Since her swords stayed with Locke’s men back in Harrenhal, the ‘companions’ only had a dagger to spare for her, after she asked them for something to guard herself with. The same night, when they made camp, all were busy with the meal, when suddenly there was the sound of metal plunging into soft soil. All looked around stunned until they saw Brienne’s dagger wiggling back and forth in the ground, a halved snake on either side of the blade. And the Maiden of Tarth just went on eating her meal in all silence, and only collected the blade once she had finished the meagre serving.

Jaime is not easily impressed, but Brienne’s blunt accuracy left him blinking more than once.

“What do you want here?” she asks at last, sounding as annoyed as he knows her to, even though there is this slight tremor in her chest, the one she always has out of embarrassment. And she is embarrassed a lot. Because she is awkward, or so Jaime understands it.

“I wanted to ask you the same question,” he replies. “It would be a pity if we lost you now in the woods, to some lynx or so. Then the mighty jump down the bear pit would have been for nothing.”

“There are no lynx in these woods. Just hares, foxes, badgers, rats, mice, and maybe some lone wolf, but nothing more,” she argues. “But surely no _lynx_ will make an attempt on my life. And even if there was one, I’d know how to take it down.”

“Well, gladly you have a lion around to guard you, too,” Jaime chuckles softly.

A one-pawed lion, fine, but a lion can growl no matter how many limbs you cut off his body, right?

Brienne says nothing. Instead, she starts to work on the bandage around her neck with clumsy hands. Jaime wrinkles his nose, but almost yelps when he sees her almost yanking the thing off in one try, “Geez, woman! If you want your wounds to reopen and fester, you surely know how to achieve just that.”

She really has a tendency to be rough, especially to herself… and him. If she doesn’t try to scrub her skin off with a brush, the wench tries to tear it off along with a bandage. Really, he’s never seen someone so much at war with everything, even her own body.

His eyes tear away from her to the blood-smeared bandages now lying on the dry leaves. In the moonlight they seem even brighter red than in daylight. A bit of brown by the edges, where the blood already dried, but three parallel crimson lines, if blurry, now lie on the dry leaves.

And for some reason that turns Jaime’s stomach just the wrong way. He has to take a breath for a moment so that he doesn’t bring the sparse meal back up – because it is surely not worth the revisit.

That red shouldn’t be on her, shouldn’t come out of her.

Brienne, seemingly having decided to ignore him from now on, goes on to take out a small goatskin, Jaime reckons it to be the strong alcohol Qyburn also used to treat his stump, and splashes it against her neck with edgy movements.

Red blood mixes with a liquid faintly red, too, seeping into the tunic, leaving it a muddy kind of rose. The crimson travels over her white, pale skin that seems almost free of disturbing freckles in the white moonlight.

Jaime tilts his head, for some reason shocked and simultaneously fascinated by the way those red vines climb down her body, as though they were really living plants, small crimson tendrils, which keep growing with every time her flat chest rises and falls.

“Will you seriously keep standing there?” she asks, not looking at him as she caps the small goatskin again to put it back into the pouch. Jaime blinks, brining himself away from the red colour making him dizzy, “I told you, we can’t have you get stolen now, by whatever that might creep through these woods.”

“Who would steal me?” she huffs. “Except for some giant animal to eat me, which does, however, not reside here, as already said.”

“Locke’s men stole you,” he shrugs.

“They followed us because of the man who sang to them. They took me along because I was with you. In fact, I reckon I’d be much safer without you. After all, you are a prisoner of value, no?” she retorts. Jaime tilts his head. There is something bitter about her words that usually isn’t there.

“The last time I left you alone, you ended up in a bear pit,” he argues with as much sarcasm as possible, to draw out a frown, a small smile, but _nothing_.

For some reason Jaime finds this utterly frustrating by now.

He really seems to be out of his mind to crave a wench’s attention, _this_ wench's attention.

She says nothing this time, if at all, she looks offended now. Jaime makes a face. This is not working how it usually does.

Brienne is already busy with another task as she takes out a small jar Qyburn likely gave to her, too. She edges closer to the water, trying to see her reflection in the moonlit surface to bring the ointment on the gashes, which seem to glow unnaturally red in this goddamn moonlight. They seem ever the more vivid to Jaime, the skin rising and falling like mountains and valleys.

Bleeding mountains.

And it is at that instant that Jaime feels his stomach revolting again, since the red seems to scorch right in his chest, right in his stomach. Because he is responsible for those marks she now has as a constant reminder of her time in Harrenhal. The red will fade away soon, but pearly white, or even worse, fleshy rose like the fabric of that godforsaken dress will remain for the rest of her days. And that makes Jaime really sick. It’s not that he is very much concerned about her looks, for she likely isn’t either, but the knight knows that this is a time she would likely rather forget about.

Like he would rather forget it, too.

Brienne lets out a growl of frustration, edging closer to the water, changing the angle slightly as she clumsily pokes her finger at the wounds. She continues anyway, but soon she can’t seem to help a small yelp, which sounds really rather girlish for anyone who doesn’t see the deep wound she digs her fingertip into – because then anyone would realise that it’d be more appropriate to roar and howl in pain.

“You know, you could ask Qyburn for it. He would surely not poke you as much as you do yourself,” he tells her with a grimace. Brienne narrows her eyes, but doesn’t meet his gaze, “I won’t.”

“Why not? You accepted the medicine from him,” he argues.

Sometimes she makes absolutely no sense, or no, she almost always makes no sense.

“I don’t want him to touch me,” she replies, craning her neck, only to let out another hiss as her fingertips probe the still too sensitive skin.

“What? Are you afraid that he’d do something to you? You’d beat him to the ground before he’d ever dare touch your arse,” Jaime argues. “Not that he would be interested, I think."

“I don’t want him to touch me. Or any of them,” she says determinedly. “That has nothing to do with me being afraid of them. I’m not afraid of them in any way. They’d come to me once, they’d never walk anywhere again. I just don’t want them to touch me. Period.”

“So you rather stab yourself with your fingers? Sometimes you are even duller than you are ugly,” Jaime rolls his eyes.

“It is none of your business, alright? If I want to poke into the damned wounds, then I can do that, no bother,” she retorts angrily. To make her point, she goes on even rougher this time, only to miss the actual wound, and only poke the inflamed skin. Jaime tries hard not to let his frustration show.

Really, only Brienne of Tarth would hurt herself to show that she can hurt herself however she wants, or consider this worth a demonstration.

“You really might be the stupidest, most stubborn woman I have ever met,” Jaime exhales.

“What do I have to do so that you just leave me alone?” she sighs wearily.

“Stop doing that for instance? This hurts to watch,” he grimaces.

“No one’s asked you to watch! Just turn around and go back to the camp,” she argues vehemently.

“So that you go on plunging your dirty hands into the wound so it festers and you die,” Jaime retorts.

“If I want it like that, then that is so,” she exhales.

“No, no, no. You said I don’t get to die back when I wanted to, forcing me to eat that magotty bread. That means you don’t get to die on me either,” he tells her, gesturing with his left hand.

… He _really_ doesn’t want her to die.

And that even though Jaime wanted to kill her during their initial time every time she shoved him, every time she opened her big, dull mouth, every time she stomped her giant feet on the ground, called him 'Kingslayer', gave speeches about honour and oaths, and how he lacked both these things, every time she growled, grunted, snorted, _breathed_.

And one time he almost would have killed her, by that bridge. Because no matter what she may say, there was _no_ way that Jaime would have lost to her. He was taking a rest, _obviously_.

It’s different now of course, with his sword hand gone, but the wench most definitely didn’t beat Jaime back then. No. He would have killed her. He wanted to. To get away, to get home, to get to Cersei.

But then, not long ago, Jaime wanted Brienne not to die so much that he risked what he murdered for before. He risked his own life, his gateway back to Cersei by jumping into a bear pit.

He really seems to lose his mind.

“Just go away already!” she cries out, but that only gets Jaime’s stubbornness rising to the point that it almost matches hers. He walks closer before plopping down next to her, cross-legged. Brienne edges away from him, the red of her wounds travelling up to her pale cheeks at once. Jaime holds out his good hand to her, his fingers moving as though he was playing an instrument, “Give it to me, wench.”

“What?” she looks at him, bewildered. He nods at the jar.

“I will finish that. I may have only one good hand now, but I am by no means as stubbornly clumsy as you are with your mulish self-treatment,” Jaime replies. "In fact, a bear would be more careful than you."

“No?” Brienne replies.

“Yes. We can play that game now all night through, or I show you that I can wrestle you to the ground indeed. Whatever option you choose is fine with me,” he warns her. “I wrestled a bear. I am now much more confident that I can manage to overpower you now, too.”

“You didn’t wrestle the bear,” she corrects him, puckering her plump lips.

“Do not downplay my act of sheer heroism,” Jaime argues.

Just because he knows it was no heroism doesn’t mean he has to let anyone know, right?

After all, that is the one thing that seemingly earned him the wench’s respect at last.

… Since when does he need her respect, though?

The red really makes him foolish.

“In fact you did not _wrestle_ the bear. You jumped down, got in front of me, pushed me back and told me to stay behind you, they started to shoot arrows at the bear, then you helped me up, you climbed up as well, and we pulled you out at the last second,” she replies matter-of-factly. “But at no point did you wrestle the bear. That would have been even more reckless than was the whole act in first place.”

Jaime tilts his head. He is seemingly not the only one going over this situation again and again.

“Oh, by the Seven, you take the fun out of things. Wrestling a bear sounds so much better,” Jaime argues, slightly amused, but his amusement doesn’t carry over to her. Instead, her jaw is a straight line again, her shoulders tense to the point that a fresh droplet of blood oozes down from the third slash on her neck.

“I swear, one day, you will make your muscles such a tight knot that you will end up breaking every single bone in your body. Relax, by the Gods,” Jaime demands. “And give me that godforsaken jar already. I am fed up with you playing the hard-to-get here.”

“Then leave,” she growls.

“Jar,” Jaime says, gesticulating.

“No,” she repeats flatly.

“Jar. I won’t ask a third time,” Jaime warns her.

“Good, that means you can go,” she snaps.

“You are pure frustration, wench,” Jaime exhales, running his thumb and index finger over the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I should have left you in the bear pit after all.”

“Maybe you should have,” is the mute reply that leaves Jaime staring.

“W, what?” he looks at her, blinking again and again.

But of course, Brienne just sets her jaw as though it was a lock. Jaime uses her moment of silent glumness to snatch the jar from her at last.

“I told you I wouldn’t ask a third time,” he says. “Now turn around so that we can get over with this. This show is not at all as entertaining as you may think.”

He nudges against her shoulder to make her tilt her torso to him, “I can also get the ropes – if only to show you how I felt when you had a leash on me. And trust me, it’s not at all that grand.”

Brienne breathes in and out through her nostrils. Jaime ignores that, scoops up some of the ointment and starts to bring it down on the red streaks as gingerly as he can, though he must admit that he used to be much swifter with his left hand.

Though still better than the wench with her clumsy paws.

Jaime works his way through the bloody valleys and mountains, wincing each time she winces for some reason.

Oh _right_ , it seems that he starts to develop _empathy_ again.

Or maybe he is just going insane.

Or… maybe both.

“What is it with you?” he asks in a soft voice, his fingers still working their path through the valleys and mountains painted in crimson.

“What should be with me?” she asks, trying her best to keep her voice flat, though her lips keep curling over and over again.

“I was forced to spend a lot of time with you. That means I know when you act even more awkwardly than you do by nature. Not to mention that you not taking offence in my tease destroys the game for me,” he tells her, keeping his voice light, though he finds himself really wanting to know.

Needing to know.

Yes, he is most definitely insane.

“My apologies for destroying the game for you,” she huffs, but her voice still lacks the strength it would take to serve as one of her usual comebacks.

And Jaime wants her to come back.

For whatever the reason now.

Just why does the moonlight seem to blind him so much? The wench looks not halfway as bad as she does in bright day light.

Or maybe he is just going blind.

Though that would be a pity of course.

Because that means he’d be colour blind, too.

And that means he wouldn’t see the blue of her eyes ever again. One of the few good features she has about herself.

Gods, this is the wench! Grey, red, blue, doesn’t matter, right? Still a plank of a woman who’d smack her dour head into archways if they were inside a building and not outside, no matter the colour.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks again, his voice strong but still soft enough not to come out in a huff. “And don’t say ‘nothing’. We both know that you are ridiculously bad at lying.”

“Why did you come back?” she asks bluntly.

“To Harrenhal?” he grimaces. Brienne nods, so he goes on, “I told you, I forgot you there.”

And he does his best to cover his shame for the fact that it’s true in a sense. He forgot to take her with. That he never should have given in to spare her the crimson valleys and mountains now marring her body.

She shakes her head this time, suddenly looking… _sad_.

“… I never should have left you there in the first place, easy as that,” he replies truthfully.

“But that was the debt,” she argues, her voice no more than a whisper, looking more like an uncertain girl than a grown wench he knows her to be.

Maybe it’s the fact that they are now almost on eye level that she appears even younger to him.

Or maybe the reality dawns on him that he is a lot older than her.

Or really just the fever.

The fever of empathy.

Is he becoming a man of good morale?

Gods forbid!

“For _what_? That I stick to my vow to return the Stark girls to their Mother? You wouldn’t let me out of that ever again, even if I was half dead and only had one arm left,” he frowns, still unsure what the wench might be trying to hint at.

There are mysterious women, those dark figures that make men go crazy with a single look. Like Cersei.

But Brienne is not at all mysterious.

And still he can’t figure her out, because she is so basic, so blunt. She is a milky shard of glass he can’t see through.

“Your hand,” is the reply he gets, but not the reply he expected by any means.

She definitely tends to surprise him.

“I owed you a debt for leaving you there with Locke. What are you saying?” he makes a face, not sure what brought her to that ridiculous idea. He goes over the conversation inside his head another time, and that was what it was about. Not once did his hand play a role in this scene back in Harrenhal.

“I owed you a debt since you lost your hand, also because of me. And now I owe you another debt, for saving my life. And I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, the least a Lannister,” she tells him, not looking at him.

Jaime decides to be benevolent not to take offence in the statement about his family.

“Is that why you were making an attempt of being nice to me?” he can’t help but chuckle softly. “In your very awkward, plank-like way?”

“ _That_ is good tone,” she replies promptly. Jaime makes a face, so she explains, “You help those who need help. You still can’t do those things all by yourself since you didn’t get used to handling things one-handed, so I help you with the tasks, naturally.”

Jaime has to straighten his back a little as he lets the information seep through him like the ointment sinks into his skin the same way it sinks into hers. He is really not used to people other than his family treating him kindly, and even his family doesn’t always treat him kindly, except for Tyrion maybe, and Cersei if she lets him hold her, kiss her, be with her. He knows how people treat him with due respect, some with fear, but to have someone who treats him kindly because she finds it the right thing to do… maybe he is just too much of a scornful man after all, too weary of the world by now to realise and understand that there are women, wenches treating you kindly because they are… kind?

“Why didn’t you say that before?” he asks mutely.

Because he surely would have said his thanks then.

“Why would I? As I said, that is what one should naturally do,” she shrugs. “I didn’t think that needed explanation.”

Jaime can’t help a small chuckle, but then turns serious again, “You don’t owe me anything, so that you know. I reckon I should have broken it down to you, because you are dull after all, but you owe me nothing at all. I never should have left you at the hands of Locke, so you don’t owe me anything for getting you out of there. And with the hand… it was my decision. While obviously it wasn’t my best choice, and I wouldn’t make it in _such_ a way twice, you don’t owe me anything for it in turn, you understand?”

He really can’t stand the sad expression on her face. He wants to wipe it out somehow, like he wants to wipe all that crimson away, to leave nothing but sapphire blue.

“You didn’t have to jump into the bear pit,” she argues. “You could have tried to talk to Locke. Could have waited for the others to arrive. You didn’t have to jump down that pit.”

Her fingers curl as though they were trying to grab an absent object.

“One could be under the impression that you care for me, wench, careful now,” he winks at her, though his humour is short-lived as he sees her pained expression, the same kind of reaction he only stirred back in the bathtub when he accused her of not having protected Renly or him, for not keeping her oaths.

And only once he saw that expression did he really understand how deeply that pain haunted her body, like he is haunted by _that look_ , by his byname.

“I already failed Lady Catelyn by not bringing you to King’s Landing in one piece. And you almost managed to make me fail again by jumping back into that pit,” she says, chewing her lower lip.

“Yet, here we are,” he argues with a sigh. “Alive, and… _mostly_ in one piece, heading to King’s Landing.”

He takes his hand down, glancing at the crimson marks again, which now shine wetly from the ointment. Almost like rubies.

Rubies are the same as sapphires, except for the colour. They are of the same material, or so Tyrion told him one time when Jaime was only halfway listening to his brother trying to shine with his wits again.

“Ah, there, as good as new, or well, at least we didn’t do more damage than you already did in your stubbornness,” he says. Brienne wordlessly takes the jar from him, and caps it, and Jaime sees that he wouldn’t be able to close the jar’s lid, which is why she snatched it from him right away. She twists back around and away from him to dig through her pouch again.

And for some reason Jaime feels disappointment, after her body had offered a nice kind of warmth for as long as she was mere inches from him.

By the Gods, what is it with him?

What is it about her?

Is it the phase of the moon?

Brienne finally finds some linen to put on the wounds, and at once the crimson disappears behind whitish cloth, leaving Jaime with nothing but her eyes to look at. He quickly plunges his hand into the small pond to wash off the ointment and her crimson, her rubies.

“… Thank you, for… helping me out… with this,” Brienne says, her jaws not parting much at all, forcing the words out as though she was chewing on tar.

“It’s odd that you apparently believe that it’s natural to do these services for others, but unnatural when others do it for you,” Jaime can’t help but remark.

While for Jaime, it always used to be the other way around.

“I serve. I don’t rely on people other than my Lord or Lady to treat me with due respect. I don’t like to be dependent on anyone, because no matter what I may find natural is not to most people. They think everything comes with a price attached, even such trivial things like doing things others can’t, because of sickness or whatever else,” Brienne replies solemnly. “I don’t like to rely on people because…”

Brienne stops herself, blinking repeatedly, seemingly realising that she let go of some of the defences she keeps so stubbornly up around other people.

Maybe he is not the only one affected by the moonlight.

“Because?” he tilts his head.

Why does he ask?

Why does he want to know?

And why, by the Seven Gods they are bound to pray to and believe in, did they decide to send this seemingly magical moonlight down on her to obscure his vision to the point that she seems not at all that ugly?

It’s enough to develop a heart.

Jaime doesn’t need such a thing on tops.

Just that he seemingly really needs it.

“Whenever I did, I was disappointed, deceived. Whenever I did, I… had to realise that the world is no kind place, especially for ugly girls, or rather, the ugliest woman in the world,” Brienne admits feebly, resigned. “I’m too easy to convince, that’s just it, so I… rather try not to…”

“Be tempted?” Jaime grins darkly for some reason, to which she only rolls her eyes.

“I try not to rely on other people. I can do things on my own. I learned to be independent very early on,” she says.

At some point Jaime guesses he should have known, at least ever since the events in the bathtub in Harrenhal. She basically told him back then already when he wanted a truce and she said that you needed trust for a truce.

Brienne doesn’t trust anyone because she never had someone trust her, because she had no one to ever really trust.

Because she isn’t charming.

Good-looking.

Womanly.

Careful.

Mysterious.

She is dull.

Blunt.

Hard-shelled.

Idealistic beyond the realm of reason.

Recklessly loyal.

And for some reason also kind and caring, insecure, uncertain, fragile, marred with crimson valleys and mountains, and born with sapphires in her eyes.

“You mean you learned to be alone very early on,” Jaime corrects her.

“I learned how to deal with things alone,” Brienne argues.

“But for some things you need two people,” he smirks.

He’ll blame the Gods for playing a trick on him any time, but for now he wants to forget the Gods, the world.

The crimson made him lose his mind, and Jaime is too tired to care, and too tired to go search his mind to put it back in place.

“I could have applied the ointment the same way. I already did before, alright?” she argues, but suddenly he is right in front of her, consuming her lips with his own. Brienne remains as stiff as a poker at first, waiting for him to pull back, flashing a feral grin, “It takes two to kiss, you know?”

At some point Jaime would like to laugh at how corny that sounded. He used to be a lot smoother with words, and a lot smoother at making advances on a woman.

But then again, on Brienne, anything smooth is lost, because she'd likely not get it, the dull wench she is.

He frowns when she suddenly has the back of her hand against his forehead. He wriggles his eyebrows, glancing up to her hand.

“You must have a fever after all.”

Jaime lets out a bellowed laughter this time. Brienne tilts her head like a dog who didn’t learn a command yet, her sapphires shining so much brighter in the white moonlight that it leaves him lightheaded.

Other women would have pushed him, others would have punched him, some likely would have returned the token of affection, some others might well try to make more of the bargain… and Brienne thinks it such an impossible reaction to her that she thinks he must be mad in fever, and actually show her tender side by even checking on him.

By the Gods, this plank might be not as flat as he first thought.

And this plank makes him feel empathy.

Makes him marvel at her sapphires, dread her rubies, and drags him all the way from the warm camp to this small pool surrounded by dry leaves and only hypnotising, sense-depriving moonlight above their heads, only to face those feverish thoughts that drive him to the point of crazy that he claims her lips and finds them soft, and that he finds them wanting even more.

“I don’t have a fever,” he tells her, pulling her hand from his forehead.

At least no fever of the body, of the mind, maybe, but nothing that she would feel by touching his forehead.

“Then you are out of your mind,” she huffs, grimacing at the fact that he didn’t let go of her hand yet.

“Possibly,” he shrugs with a smirk.

Very likely.

“Why did you?” she demands. “I don’t need you to mock me.”

“I didn’t mean to mock you,” he argues, suddenly so very credible that he has to believe it himself.

Gods, this moonlight.

He should call it a bluff, a tease, but he can't, because it isn't, and because he wants more.

Because this red fever makes him greedy, greedy for a bloody wench.

“Right,” she snorts, already meaning to retort something in turn, but his lips are back on hers, holding her by her good shoulder with his good hand.

Jaime knows that he is by no means a good match. He looks like a beggar whose hand was cut off as punishment for stealing, he is old in comparison to her and weary, crippled, and to say that he is a man of fractured honour is an understatement. He is a man of sin.

Jaime knows she should push him back, but her body reacts so wonderfully to every of his moves, every of his touches so that he can’t let go, must hold on.

Brienne is different from Cersei in her touches and reactions, however. She is hesitant, shy, not dominating, fighting, consuming, burning, but running, trying to sneak away, but finding the heels firmly digging into the ground against better judgment.

No lioness, but a scared giant deer at this point, a roe that grew antlers too big for her and for no reason, against anything nature ever commanded.

A roe with sapphires and rubies in her fur.

Jaime pulls her closer to him. And for a moment he almost manages to forget that he is a cripple and that she is not Cersei. Perhaps it is the knowledge that they both bled to be on the path, that both left crimson trails behind them to be here now.

Or maybe he has a fever after all.

But this fever feels good for reasons he can’t explain, and if it is a fever indeed, Brienne picked it up from him as her cheeks start to glow like rubies, too.

“What… are you doing? Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice catching in her throat.

“Showing you that you can rely on me,” he says, pulling her closer again, getting lost in the warmth she radiates, in the sound of the leaves rustling beneath them, finding them so much more soothing against his body than that bloody spot of grey grass that stabbed the left cheek of his arse.

"I won't forget you ever again."

Jaime finds her body submitting to his touches more and more, the tension deflating out of her muscles, making her softer and softer with ever intake of air, every second he keeps himself close to her. She melts against him and he against her.

Her uncertain touches against his back, his neck, his cheek are so surprisingly soft that he has to suck in the air much more forcefully a few times. He is used to tender touches, he is used to touches by manicured fingertips. He is not used to tender touches by calloused hands that are soft nevertheless, because they are filled with care and carefulness, making sure that there is no pressure on his healing stump, that he doesn't lose balance.

More than he seemingly does anyway.

But he wants to get lost in that touch, if only for a single night, cherishing the blood both shed.

“I’ll be handling the treatment of your wounds from now on,” he mutters into the nape of her neck. He guesses she nods against the side of his face, but she is mute once more.

He kisses her again, kisses the harshness out of her, the self-blame, the self-hate, touches the body she seems to detest, makes her submit to his touches, forces her not to parry, but to let him through to her.

It must be a fever.

It must be madness.

It must be both their madness to pull each other close on dry leaves, amidst a forest where hares, foxes, badgers, rats, mice, and maybe some lone wolf might steal them away, to forget about what lies behind them in crimson, and what lies ahead of them in the Red Keep.

But neither really cares, lost in the moment, lost in a touch either long since forgotten or never felt before. One unsure if he still can, the other if she can at all. Both relying on skills in the other that either laid dormant for way too long, or haven’t yet awakened.

And still, it seems like perfection, blurred out by the moonlight above their heads.

Jaime holds her close to his chest, almost breathless against her careful, care-filled touches that shouldn’t come from a woman who is so careless for her own sake. And yet they are. And yet she is.

And Jaime can't let go of her.

She grew to be his constant after all, dull and stubborn notwithstanding.

They get lost in each other's red haze, blur out each other's edges.

Jaime eventually falls asleep, arms wrapped around her, trying to give her the feeling that she can indeed rely on someone, even if it’s just a crippled Kingslayer, and only once sleep claims her does she fully rest against him, allowing him to hold her, keep her close, keep her safe, do the things she can do on her own, but leaves to him this one time.

And only once the sun is still red on the horizon the next morn do they wake, as though two pieces, rough and edgy, fell into one.

For a moment Brienne wants to pull away from him, but Jaime keeps her within his embrace. Because even in bright daylight he can't bring himself to let her go. 

Maybe it wasn't the moonlight after all.

And for some reason, maybe tiredness, maybe infection, maybe madness mixed with red fever, she eases back against him.

“Does that mean we have a truce at last?” he mumbles, his chin resting on her scalp.

“I trust you,” is the simple reply holding so much more power than any other person will ever know.

And the pond reflects the sunlight, bathing it in red, but all Jaime is focused on are the blue sapphires in his arms.


End file.
